


I'll Wait For You With Both My Eyes Shut

by thefairfleming



Category: The White Princess (TV)
Genre: F/M, Modern AU, half-assed legal research afoot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-27
Updated: 2017-09-27
Packaged: 2019-01-06 04:07:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12203562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefairfleming/pseuds/thefairfleming
Summary: Modern AU featuring Henry and Lizzie as Fighting Lawyers. Barristers. Whatever.





	I'll Wait For You With Both My Eyes Shut

It’s the wine that’s the first real clue that she’s maybe gotten in over her head with all this.

Lizzie hadn’t considered that when she was getting ready earlier, but studying the two glasses on her counter now, one filled with the Chenin Blanc she loves, the other full of the deep red Shiraz  _ he _ prefers, she mutters, “Oh, fuck me,” under her breath.

She’s buying him wine now. Wine she doesn’t even like is currently taking up space in the fancy bottle rack her mum gave her as a flat-warming present all because she saw the wine at the store on her way home, and remembered him ordering a glass that first night when they’d ended up at after-work drinks, remembered how he never takes her up on her offer of a glass of white when he comes over.

Standing there in her stocking feet, suit jacket discarded, several buttons of her blouse undone, Lizzie dithers, looking from the wine to the front door where, at any moment, she expects to hear his knock.

She should pour it out. Pour it right down the sink, hide the bottle, pretend she never thinks about him at all except for the moments when she’s either facing him in court or letting him make her come. 

But then he’s knocking at the door, and she has a sudden, horrible image of accidentally splashing the wine down her cream blouse in her haste to throw it out, so no, she’ll leave it and pretend she’s taken a sudden liking to Shiraz.

Grimacing at the thought, Lizzie wanders over the door, not wanting to appear too eager. Before she turns the knob, she takes a second to fluff her hair a bit, licking her lips, then flicking one more button open on her blouse, low enough that the silvery-gray lace of her bra just peeks out.

And when she slowly opens the door, leaning against the jamb with her eyebrows raised, she’s  _ highly _ gratified to see Henry’s eyes immediately slip to that little hint of lace. 

“You’re late,” she says, and his gaze lifts from her cleavage to her face, thin lips quirking in a quick smirk.

“Some of us don’t clock out at five on the dot,” he says, but he’s already moving into the flat, loosening his tie with one hand while the other finds her waist, pushing her back against the wall as he kicks the door shut behind him.

His kiss tastes like the cinnamon gum she saw in his briefcase earlier, and Lizzie sighs against his mouth, tilting her hips away from the wall to press against him. 

This is by far the stupidest thing she’s ever done, shagging opposing counsel, and she once again tells herself she’ll stop even as she breaks the kiss to finish the work he’d started on his tie, her fingers busy as she slides it from underneath his collar and tosses it away with a vague moue of distaste.

“Your suits are truly tragic,” she tells him, hands sliding to his chest.

Palms flat against the wall behind her, arms braced, Henry looks down at her as she makes quick work of the buttons on his shirt. “Next time I’ll change before coming over.”

“Who says there’s going to be a next time?” Lizzie asks, the tartness of the words softened by the way she smooths her hands over his shoulders as she slides his shirt off of him. 

“There’s always a next time,” Henry says, voice rough, and then his arm is around her waist and he’s hauling her up against him to kiss her again.

The wine ends up forgotten for awhile, the two of them managing to make it to her bed at least, which is better than the night before when they’d ended up shagging there in the front hallway, sending a watercolor she’d never really liked- Cecily’s flat warming gift- crashing to the ground.

In her defense, she’d spent all that afternoon watching him twirl a pen between his long fingers, walking it over his knuckles, tapping it against a pad of paper, occasionally clenching it in his teeth as he’d flipped through his notes, which meant that she’d spent that afternoon fixated on his hands and mouth and the memory of what he could do with those.

So by the time he’d shown up last night, she’d been reading to pull that ugly suit off him with her teeth.

Tonight is slower, but no less intense, and if Lizzie stops to think about how she’s having the best sex of her life with  _ Henry Tudor _ , she’ll have to throw herself off the London Eye, probably 

Now they lay on her bed, breathing hard, Lizzie on her back, Henry on his stomach, and she pushes her hair back from her face with a trembling hand.

“That almost makes up for this morning,” she says when she trusts herself to speak, and he turns his head, eyes narrowing in the dim light.

“That testimony was utterly irrelevant, and you know it.”

“It was not! If she saw Richard on April 5th-,”  
“The person _claiming_ he’s Richard,” Henry corrects as he rolls over and tucks one of her pillows behind his head. “And it’s still hearsay.”

Sitting up, Lizzie tucks the sheet underneath her armpits. “He’s Richard. The DNA test proved it.”

Henry snorts. “Right, because his family’s certainly never bought anyone off before. Plus the chances of contamination are-,”

“Nil, and you’re being an asshole,” she says before sighing and shaking her head. 

“Why are we doing this?” Lizzie asks, looking over her shoulder at him.

If he’d get huffy or cold, it would be so easy to tell him to leave, but instead he smiles. This slow, lazy grin that she can feel in the back of her knees, and shit, no wonder she’s buying him red wine. 

“What, arguing or shagging?” he asks her sardonically, and Lizzie feels her own mouth curve in response.

“Either. Both.”

Shrugging, Henry shifts deeper into the pillows. “We’re arguing because we do it professionally, and we’re both pretty bloody great at it. We’re shagging because we’re both pretty bloody great at that, too, turns out. And the two things are related, no doubt, because I spent a lot of the day wondering what you had on underneath your suit today.”

“Even when I was being a pain in your arse?”

“ _ Because _ you were being a pain in my arse.”

That makes Lizzie laugh in spite of herself, and scrubbing a hand over her face, she groans. “We’re such idiots.”

“Probably,” he agrees, cheerful in that annoying way he is after they’ve fucked. 

Then he frowns slightly, raising one knee, foot sliding along the mattress. “Christ, these really _are_ fucking great sheets,” he says, almost to himself, and Lizzie frowns until she remembers that afternoon weeks ago, the one that had led to all of….this.

Her leaving the courts, stepping outside in the cold evening air, shivering in her Burberry coat. She’d paused to light a quick cig, and then suddenly Henry had been there, glaring down at her, wearing his bad suit, briefcase in hand. “How exactly do you sleep at night?” he’d asked her, and after a week of going hammer and tongs with him in the courtroom, his self-righteousness had been too much to bear.

“On really fucking great sheets,” she’d told him with a bright smile before flicking ash on his shoes.

She’d expected him to glare and probably stomp off, but to her shock, he’d smiled. Or smirked. In any case, it had made him seem younger and cuter, a revelation that had rattled her so much that when he’d asked her if she wanted to grab a drink, she’d agreed.

Which had somehow led to snogging in the taxi which had in turn led to him getting her off on her couch, his hand under her skirt, her hand twisted around his boring burgundy tie. 

Which led...here. And the past few weeks which were clearly the sign of some kind of nervous breakdown, probably brought on by the stress of defending her mother’s godson against over a dozen fraud charges. 

Keeping the sheet tucked around her, Lizzie reaches down for her knickers. They’re her favorite pair, little blue silk boy shorts trimmed in the same lace as her bra which...is somewhere in the hall still. 

Rising from the bed, Lizzie slides her underwear back on, not bothering with a top as she makes her way to the kitchen to grab their glasses of wine.

As she comes back into the bedroom, she warns, “Don’t think I’m making a habit of this.”

“Bringing me wine in bed?” he asks, his gaze moving hungrily over her as he sits up. “Or wandering around topless? Because both are currently top of my ‘Things I Actually Like About Lizzie York’ list.”

Rolling her eyes, Lizzie hands him the glass of Shiraz. “I assume that list has three things on it, and one of them is ‘blowjobs.’”

“Those do top the list, yes,” he acknowledges with such a serious nod that she laughs again, reaching out to shove at his shoulder. 

“And now we have the wine and tits things,” he adds. “So really, the list is…,” Glancing up, he pretends to calculate it. “Christ, up to at least seven things now. You must really be growing on me.”

He’s teasing, but as they sit in her bed sipping wine, Lizzie begins to think he might have grown on her, too.

A lot more than he should have. 


End file.
